Mr Punch With Rod and Gun

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Title: Mr. Punch With Rod and Gun
The humours of fishing and shooting

Author: Various

Release Date: May 24, 2014 [EBook #45748]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

EDITED BY J. A. HAMMERTON

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour,
contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch", from its
beginning in 1841 to the present day

Mr. P fishing

Two men in a punt

A Feat of Agility.—Voice from the Bow (to Binks, who is trying to adjust the moorings, and
has arrived at the happy moment when he is doubtful whether he will stay with the pole or
return to the punt). "Now then, you idiot, keep still! I've got a nibble!"

MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

THE HUMOURS OF FISHING

AND SHOOTING

WITH 193 ILLUSTRATIONS

[Pg 1]

[Pg 2]

[Pg 3]

BY

CHARLES KEENE, JOHN LEECH,
PHIL MAY, GEORGE DU MAURIER,
L. RAVEN-HILL, C. SHEPPERSON,
CECIL ALDIN, BERNARD PARTRIDGE,
W. J. HODGSON, A. S. BOYD,
TOM BROWNE, REGINALD CLEAVER,
CHARLES PEARS, H. M. BROCK,
AND OTHERS.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH

THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

THE EDUCATIONAL BOOK CO. LTD.

THE PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Twenty-five volumes, crown 8vo, 192 pages fully illustrated

LIFE IN LONDON
COUNTRY LIFE

IN THE HIGHLANDS
SCOTTISH HUMOUR

IRISH HUMOUR

COCKNEY HUMOUR

IN SOCIETY

AFTER DINNER STORIES

IN BOHEMIA
AT THE PLAY

MR. PUNCH AT HOME
ON THE CONTINONG

RAILWAY BOOK
AT THE SEASIDE

MR. PUNCH AFLOAT

IN THE HUNTING FIELD
MR. PUNCH ON TOUR
WITH ROD AND GUN
MR. PUNCH AWHEEL

BOOK OF SPORTS

GOLF STORIES

IN WIG AND GOWN
ON THE WARPATH

BOOK OF LOVE

WITH THE CHILDREN

Man fishing in heavy rain.

Cartoon. Mr P. juggling

PREFACE

As a fisherman Mr. Punch is in the best of his humours. He makes merry over the weaknesses of those who follow the
craft of Old Izaak, always with the slyest of genial manners. The angler's habit of exaggerating the size of his catch—his
patience or his impatience when the fish won't bite—the conscious or unconscious ridicule he has to endure from
onlookers when he is unsuccessful—the proverbial thirst that attacks the fisherman, whether he catches anything or not
—Mr. Punch has a keen eye for all such incidentals and presents them so jovially that nobody laughs over them more
heartily than his victims themselves do.
Leech, Charles Keene, Phil May, Du Maurier, Raven-Hill, Bernard Partridge, G. D. Armour—most of the best-known

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Man with shotgun

Man shooting at fish.

"POTTING SHRIMPS"

Mr. P. with cigar.

Punch artists, old and new, have revelled in the humours of both fishing and
shooting.

He gets as much laughter out of those who handle the gun. The infinite variety of
jokes he cracks about the bad shot, the man who can't hit the birds, or is always
hitting the dogs or his companion guns, is amazing. He does not spare the lady
shooter, and jests of the peril in which the rest of the field are placed when she is
out after the birds or rabbits; and he gets a good deal of fun out of the Frenchman's
alien notion of sport.

Cartoon. Mr P fishing

MR. PUNCH WITH ROD AND GUN

Observations on Ground Bait.—Boys are often taught, though they never learn, to regard fishing as a cruel amusement,
when nevertheless angling, at least as most commonly practised in the Thames, is universally admitted to be particularly
and pre-eminently the gentle craft.

Epitaph on an Angler.—"Hooked it."

THE DUFFER WITH A SALMON-ROD

FROM "THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER"

No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit, and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as
practised in the South of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can be more soothing than to sit on a
convenient stump, under a willow, and watch the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs on, and
perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and fleet the time carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty
demands that you shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you come within reach of him, and cast a fly, which usually
makes him postpone his dinner-hour. But he will come on again, there is no need for you to change your position, and
you can always fill your basket easily—with irises and marsh-marigolds.
Such are our country contents, but woe befall the day when I took to salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-
crown flees" soon mount up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If you buy a light rod, say of
fourteen feet, the chances are that it will not cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman the strength of a
Sandow. You need wading-breeches, which come up nearly to the neck, and weigh a couple of stone. The question
has been raised, can one swim in them, in case of an accident? For one, I can answer, he can't. The reel is about the
size of a butter-keg, the line measures hundreds of yards, and the place where you fish for salmon is usually at the utter
ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in February. Covered with furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are pulled
in a funereal manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish for themselves. The angler's only business is to pick
them up if a salmon bites, and when this has gone on for a few days, with no bite, influenza, or a hard frost with curling,
would be rather a relief. This kind of thing is not really angling, and a Duffer is as good at it as an expert.
Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve
us as a name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you pay a large rent for the right to gaze at a series of
red and raging floods, or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring peevishly through a drought. But suppose,
for the sake of argument, that the water is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls at some thirty miles an
hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that the Duffer does not leave any indispensable part of his equipment at
home. He arrives at the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose contempt for the Duffer breeds familiarity, he puts up
his rod, selects a casting line, knots on the kind of fly which is locally recommended, and steps into the water. Oh, how
cold it is! I begin casting at the top of the stream, and step from a big boulder into a hole.

Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and here one is in a sitting
position in the bed of the stream. However, the high india-rubber breeks have kept the
water out, except about a pailful, which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the

soles of one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking more gingerly, though to the spectator my
movements suggest partial intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of boulders, which one cannot see,
owing to the darkness of the water. There was a fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth. I wade in as
far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A frantic tug behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am
caught up in the root of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No use in the language of imprecation. I waddle

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out, climb the bank, extricate the fly, get out a spare top, and to work again, more cautiously. Something wrong, the
hook has caught in my coat, between my shoulders. I must get the coat off somehow, not an easy thing to do, on
account of my india-rubber armour. It is off at last. I cut the hook out with a knife, making a big hole in the coat, and
cast again. That was over him! I let the fly float down, working it scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look at the
fly. Just my luck, I have cracked it off!
Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the fly-book follows—no use: it is not in the basket, it is
not in my pocket; must have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in looking for it, the water is too thick, I
thought I heard a splash. Luckily there are some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have some flies in one's cap, and it
is not so easy to lose a cap without noticing it, as to lose most things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that may do as the
water is thick. I put one on, and begin again casting over where that fish rose. By George, there he came at me, at least
I think it must have been at me, a great dark swirl, "the purple wave bowed over it like a hill," but he never touched me.
Give him five minutes law, the hook is sure to be well fastened on, need not bother looking at that again. Five minutes
take a long time in passing, when you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times and bad times and all times pass, so here
goes. It is correct to begin a good way above him and come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a long heavy drag
under water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot, while I stand in a rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get
out and run down the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out, somehow, falling on my back, but keeping the
point up with my right hand. No bones broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the line, with a heavy heart, and
try to lift it out of the water. It won't come, he is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so nice as being
all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly
he moves out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of short heavy tugs. They say he is never well
hooked, when he jiggers. The rod thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that. It is very disagreeable and
makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off again up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin water at the top,
and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo! what's that splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and has
got into the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like mad, and all the line is loose, and I can't reel up. I
begin pulling at the line to bring up the reel, but the reel only lets the line out, and now he's off again, down stream this
time, and I after him, and the line running out at both ends at once, and now my legs get entangled in it, it is twisted all
round me. He runs again and jumps, the line comes back in my face, all slack, something has given. It is the hook, it was
not knotted on firmly to start with. He flings himself out of the water once more to be sure that he is free, and I sit down
and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody such bad fortune? But it is just my luck!
I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling cautiously I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off
again; I tie it on with the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up the slack, and put on another fly, out of my
cap—a Popham. Then I fish down the rest of the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of the water, there is a long
slow draw; before I can lift the point of the rod, a salmon jumps high out of the water at me,—and is gone! I never
struck him, was too much taken aback at the moment; did not expect him then. Thank goodness, the hook is not off this
time.
The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is close in on my side. By Jove! here he is, he took
almost beside the rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream; if he will come up, I can manage him, but if
he goes down, the water is very swift and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall of rock difficult to pass
in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He insists on going down; I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he leaps, and
then—well he will have it; down he rushes, I after him, over the stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens!
the top joint of the rod is loose; I did not tie it on, thought it would hold well enough. But down it runs, right down the
line; it must be touching the fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad thing, rushes across the Big Pool, nearly
on to the opposite bank. Why won't the line run? The line is entangled in my bootlace. He is careering about; I feel that
I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew it would happen; he is off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A beauty he
was, clear as silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is nothing for it but a walk back to the house. I have lost one fly-
book, two hooks, a couple of casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I have torn a great hole in my coat. On
changing my dress before lunch, I find my fly-book in my breast pocket, where I had not thought of looking for it
somehow. Then the rain comes, and there is not another fishing day in my fortnight. Still, it decidedly was "one crowded
hour of glorious life," while it lasted. The other men caught four or five salmon apiece; it is their red letter day. It is
marked in black in my calendar.

To Well-Informed Piscatorials.—Query. What sort of fish is a Nod?
Note. A Nod is a sea-fish, and is, probably, of the limpet tribe. This we gather from our knowledge of the Periwinkle,
known in polite circles as the 'Wink. The value of the Nod has come down to us in the form of an old proverb, "A Nod
is as good as a 'Wink," and this no doubt originated the query to which we have satisfactorily replied.

Man talking to young fisherman.

"What bait are yer usin', Billie?"

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[Pg 26]

[Pg 9]

"Cheese."
"What are yer tryin' ter catch—mice?"

Cartoon. Salmon by a horse drawn carriage.

"A SALMON TAKING A FLY"

fisherman with line in a tree.

Trials of a Novice.—Friend (in the distance). "Enjoying it, old chap?"
Novice. "Rather!"

Woman speaking to fisherman

Diminutive Nursemaid (to angler, who has not had a bite for hours). "Oh, please, sir, do let
baby see you catch a fish!"

Man talking to boy fisherman.

"Not Proven."—Presbyterian Minister. "Don't you know it's wicked to catch fish on the
Sawbath?!"
Small Boy (not having had a rise all the morning). "Wha's catchin' fesh?!"

Man talking to boys.

Old Gent (who has recently purchased the property). "Now, don't you boys know that nobody
can catch fish in this stream except with my—er—a—special permit?"
Youthful Angler. "Get away! Why, me and this 'ere kid's catched scores of 'em wi' a worrum!"

Successful angler

Angler (after landing his tenth—reading notice). "The man who wrote that sign couldn't have
been using the right bait!"

Lady speaking to small boy.

Misplaced Sympathy.—"Well? Have you caught any fish, Billy?"
"Well, I really caught two! But they were quite young, poor little things, and so they didn't know
how to hold on!"

Man being charged by cattle.

TRIALS OF A NOVICE

Angler. "Hush! Keep back! Keep back! I had a beautiful rise just then; shall get another directly."

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Angler calling to friend

DREADFUL SITUATION!

Party in Waders (on the shallower side, with nice trout on). "Now then, you idiot, bring me the
net, can't you, or he'll be off in a second!"

Fisherman talking to keeper.

"Deuced odd, Donald, I can't get a fish over seven pounds, when they say Major Grant above us
killed half a dozen last week that turned twenty pounds apiece!"
Donald. "Aweel, sir, it's no that muckle odds i'th' sawmon,—but thae fowk up the watter is bigger
leears than we are doon here!"

Employer talking to employee.

"One Good Turn," etc.—City Man (to one of his clerks he finds fishing in his ornamental
water). "Look here, Smithers, I've no objection to giving you a day now and then 'to attend your
aunt's funeral'—but I think you might send some of the fish up to the house!"

Three men in a boat.

Missed.—Angus. "Eh, man, that wass a splendid cod! If we had gotten that cod, noo, we micht ha'
been ha'ein' a dram."
Mr. Smith (from Glasgow). "Indeed, and ye would, Angus."
Bauldry. "Mebbe, Maister Smuth, if we wad have had a dram afore ye wass lettin' doon yer line,
we micht have grappit that muckle fush!"
Men talking at fishing spot.

Friend. "Hullo, old chappie! Fallen in?"
Dripping Angler. "You don't suppose this is a perspiration, do you?"

Frustrated angler.

The Gentle Craftsman (?).—Irascible Angler (who hasn't had a rise all day). "There!"—
(Throwing his fly-book into the stream, with a malediction)—"Take your choice!"

Two fishermen.

Unlucky.—American Cousin (last day of season). "What sport? 'Guess I've been foolin' around
all day with a twenty-five-dollar pole, slinging fourteen-cent baits at the end of it, and haven't caught
a darned fish!"

Crowd of anglers.

"There's many a Slip," etc.—Waggles saw a splendid three-pound trout feeding in a quiet place on
the Thames one evening last week. Down he comes the next night, making sure of him! But some
other people had seen him too!!

A punt about to be rammed by another boat.

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Contemplative Man (in punt). "I don't so much care about the sport, it's the delicious repose I
enjoy so."

Girl speaking to her fishing bait.

MENACE

Little Angler (to her refractory bait). "Keep still, you tiresome little thing! If you don't leave off
skriggling, I'll throw you away, and take another!"

Arriving at train station.

A BLANK DAY

Old Gent (greeting friend). "Hullo, Jorkins! 'Been fishing? What did you catch?"
Jorkins (gloomily). "Ha'-past six train home!"

Dejected man being questioned..

AN OBVIOUSLY UNKIND INQUIRY

Brown (to Jones, who has, for the first time, been trying his hand at fishing from a boat).
"Well, old chap, what sort o' sport?"

Two men walking past a bar.

SEIZING HIS OPPORTUNITY

The Major (on his way to try for the big trout, and pondering on his fly-book). "Now I wonder
what he'll take? What d'you say, Smithers, eh?"
Smithers (pulling up with alacrity). "Take, sir? Well, sir, thanky, sir, sup o' whisky, sir, for
choice!"

People in a boat discussing the catch.

Conscientious Flattery.—Boatman. "I canna mind a finer fesh for its size!"

Angler in pouring rain.

Wet and Dry.—Careful Wife. "Are you very wet, dear?"
Ardent Angler (turning up his flask). "No, dry as a lime-kiln—haven't had a drop these two
hours!

Angler talking to keeper.

Dry-Fly Entomology.—(Scene—The banks of a Hampshire stream in the grayling season).
Angler (the rise having abruptly ceased). "I think they're taking a siesta, Thompson."
Keeper. "I dessay they are, sir, but any other fly with a touch o' red in it would do as well."

Men talking in a bar

Egomania.—(Scene—The Bar Parlour of the "Little Peddlington Arms" during a shower.)
Little Peddlingtonian (handing newspaper to stranger from London). "Have you seen that

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account of our fishing competition in the Little Peddlington Gazette, sir?"
"No, I'm afraid I've not!"
"It's a very interesting article, sir. It mentions my name several times!"

Two anglers in heavy rain.

Bottom Fishing.—Piscator No. 1 (miserably). "Now, Tom, do leave off. It isn't of any use, and it's
getting quite dark."
Piscator No. 2. "Leave off!! What a precious disagreeable chap you are! You come out for a day's
pleasure, and you're already wanting to go home!"

Man mocking fisherman.

Trials of a Novice.—Unfeeling Passer-by. "Say, mister! Are you fly-fishing, or 'eaving the lead?"

Men talking

Piscator, Senior. "What! yer want to chuck it up jus because we never catches nothing. Why, I'd
like to know how yer proposes to spend the remainder of yer 'olidays, eh?"

Yokel talking to angler.

A BROAD HINT

Piscator. "Yes, I like a day at this time of year. Get all the water to myself, you see."
Yokel. "Ah! And mayhap have a sup o' the whisky to spare for somebody else, governor?"

Discussing contents of a letter.

Tom (writing).—"I say, Bob, I'm rubbing in the local colour for the benefit of the folk at home—
could you help me to some correct fishing expressions—just to give the thing an atmosphere?"
Bob. "I've heard a lot one time and another, old man, but the only one I remember is—'Pass the
flask'!"

Two men sitting on a river bank.

"Might be Worse!"—First Jolly Angler (peckish after their walk). "Got the sandwiches and
——"
Second Jolly Angler (diving into creel). "Oh, yes, here they are, all right, and here's the whisk—
but—tut-t-t, by Jove!—I've forgotten the fishing-tackle!!"
First Jolly Angler. "Oh, ne' mind—we'll get along quite well without that!"

REBUS IN ARDUIS

Tell me, stranger, ere I perish,

Of the fish men call the trout,

Ere I lose the hopes I cherish,

Summer in and summer out,

Hopes of hooking one and landing

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Him before the day is done,

Waist deep in the water standing,

From the dawn to set of sun.

Tell me, is his belly yellow?

Is he spotted red and black?

Does he look a splendid fellow

When you turn him on his back?

Is there any fly can rise him,

Any hook can hold him tight?

Is one able to surprise him

Any time from morn to night?

Stranger, years I've passed in trying

Every artifice and lure,

Standing, crawling, wading, lying,

Casting clean and long and sure.

Empty yet remains my basket,

Cramped and weary grows my fist,

Stranger, in despair I ask it,

Does the trout in truth exist?

HAGIOLOGY.—Patron of a Fishmarket.—St. Polycarp.

Boy quizzing man in punt.

Encouraging Prospect.—Piscator Juvenis. "Any sport, sir?"
Piscator Senex. "Oh, yes; very good sport."
P.J. "Bream?"
P.S. "No!"
P.J. "Perch?"
P.S. "No!"
P.J. "What sport, then?"
P.S. "Why, keeping clear of the weeds!"

Curate speaking to boy fishing

Teaching the Teacher.—New Curate. "Now, boy, if, in defiance of that notice, I were to bathe
here, what do you suppose would happen?"
Boy. "You'd come out a great lot dirtier than you went in!"

Fishermen in pouring rain.

"Small Mercies."—First Jolly Angler (with empty creel). "Well, we've had a very pleasant day!
What a delightful pursuit it is!"
Second Ditto (with ditto). "Glorious! I sha'n't forget that nibble we had just after lunch, as long as I
live!"
Both "Ah!!"

Ladies talking round a table.

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"VERY LIKELY A WHALE"

Lady Visitor (who has been listening to Piscator's story). "I didn't know that trout grew as large
as that!"
Piscator's Wife. "Oh, yes, they do—after the story has been told a few times!"

A Reflection by an Angler.—Nature's aristocracy. Mortal man being but a worm, is therefore by nature of gentle birth.

Net Profit.—A fisherman's.

PISCATORIAL.—Shakespearian angler's song to his bait: "Sleep, gentle, sleep."

Man standing on table with fishing tackle.

Our Friend Briggs contemplates a Day's Fishing.—He is here supposed to be getting his tackle in
order, and trying the management of his running line.

Fishermen observing another.

Robson. "Do you think fishes can hear?"
Dobson. "I should hope not. Listen to old Smith—he's smashed his rod!"

Man crawling across a plank.

Lambertson (who is nervous, and weighs about a cart-load of bricks, to Dapperton, who has
just nipped across, and weighs about nine stone nothing). "Oh, yes! All very fine for you to say,
'Don't dwell on it.' B—B—BUT——"

THE GENTLE CRAFT

(By Our Own Trout)

How gentle is the fisherman who sits beside the brook,
And firmly puts the wriggling worm upon the pointed hook
How pleasant for the hapless trout to find, from some strange cause,
The fly conceals a something that makes havoc with its jaws!

Dame Juliana Berners wrote a book, in which she said
The blessing of St. Peter rests upon the angler's head;
She bid him not be "ravenous in taking game,"—I wish
She'd ever asked if he deserved the blessings of the fish.

We were a happy family, as merry as could be,
"Diversified with crimson stains," as Pope has said. Ah me!
There came the cruel fisherman, his flies had deadly gleam,
And not a soul remains but me to mourn within the stream.

What recked my little troutlets of the Palmers, Spinners, Duns,
They headlong rushed, and then got caught, my innocent young sons!
They're cooked—excuse an old trout's tear!—but hard it is to feel

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A monster's ta'en your family for matutinal meal.

The "honest angler," Walton, cried, and maundered night and day,
But Byron puts the matter in a very different way;
He said that Isaac should have hook fixed firmly "in his gullet,"
And oh! that I might be the trout that he suggests should pull it.

Two anglers, one surrounded by insects.

Brown (enthusiastic angler, who has brought his friend and guest out for a "delightful day's
fishing"). "Confound it! I've left them—I say, old chap, got any flies with you?"
Jones (not enthusiastic, and a non-smoker, wearily). "Flies!!!"

Cat stealing fish

CATS WHO CATCH CAN

Uncle George, just returned from a morning's fishing, recounts how he landed some of the "most
magnificent trout ever taken in these waters," and his audience anticipate much satisfaction from the
contents of his basket.
Cat eating the fish.

Meanwhile the contents of Uncle George's basket are being fully appreciated in the hall!

Fisherman being watched over a wall.

Lunatic (suddenly popping his head over wall). "What are you doing there?"
Brown. "Fishing."
Lunatic. "Caught anything?"
Brown. "No."
Lunatic. "How long have you been there?"
Brown. "Six hours."
Lunatic. "Come inside!"

Keeper speaking to fisherman.

A Gentle Hint.—Mr. Giglamps (who has been caught by keeper with some fish in his basket
under taking size). "Oh—er—well, you see, fact is, my glasses—er—magnify a good deal. Make
things look larger than they really are!"
Keeper (about to receive smaller tip than meets the occasion). "Ah! makes yer put down a
shillin' when yer means 'alf-a-crown, sometimes, I dessay, sir!"

Two anglers talking.

Paying too dear for his Whistle.—Donald. "E—h, sir, yon's a gran' fesh ye've gotten a haud o'!"
The Laird. "Oo, aye, a gran' fesh enoo, but I'd be gay an' glad if I saw my twa-and-saxpenny flee
weel oot o' his mooth!"

Lady urging swimmer in river.

Jones (the adventurous). "It—it's gettin' almost too d-deep, I fear, Miss Hookem!"

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Miss Hookem. "Oh, please do go on! It'll be the fish of my life!"
Jones (who is not a champion swimmer). "M-mine too!"

An Acute Angler.—The judicious Hooker.

Angler's Motto.—Carpe diem. A carp a day.

The Angle of Incidence.—When you're fishing, and tumble into the water.

Walton's Life of Hooker.—Is this another name for Izaak Walton's Complete Angler?

Conger eel thrashing about in boat.

HINTS TO BEGINNERS—SEA FISHING

In fishing for conger eels, it is sometimes convenient to have a spare boat.

Man returning flask to owner.

Returned Empty.—Old Mayfly (who had dropped his flask further down stream, and has just
had it returned to him by honest rustic). "Dear me! Thank you! Thank you!" (Gives him a
shilling.) "Don't know what I should ha' done without it!" (Begins to unscrew top.) "May I offer
you a——"
Honest Rustic. "Well, thank y', sir, but me and my mate, not seein' a howner about, we've ta'en
what there were inside."

Angler with line caught in trees.

Hints to Beginners.—When casting with a fly rod, be sure to get your line well out behind you.

THE COMPLEAT DUFFER

Man talking to lady with child in carriage.

Hooking a lobster

I have fished in every way,

Fished on every kind of day,

But my basket still remains in statu quo,

Not a stickleback will rise,
Not a gudgeon as a prize
To the quite amazing flies

That I throw.

When I try the purling brook
Many trout just have a look

At my fly, or at the minnow that I spin,

With fishy leer they squirm

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Off, and my belief is firm
That I'd better use a worm

On a pin.

Wherever I get leave,
Still I fish from morn to eve,

Though I never—hardly ever—rightly cast,

With a body soaking wet,
With a mind intent and set
On success achieving yet

At the last.

In my coat of wondrous tweed,
And on every wandering weed,

Hooks and flies unnamed invariably I fix.

Here I cannot land a fish—
I can only hope and wish
I may creel a goodly dish

In the Styx.

Two men ina boat.

Relief.—Piscator (about the end of a very bad day). "Donald, hang the boat here a bit, we may
get a rise."
Donald. "Hang!"—(Giving way)—"I shall tamm the boat if you will, and the trouts—and the loch
too!"

[Feels better!

Bridegroom catching a wedding ring

Catching her-ring

Singer striving to reach note.

Deep C fishing

Q. What is the difference between a dunce and an angler?
A. One hates his books and the other baits his hooks.

Enthusiastic.—That indefatigable angler, Trollinson, never forgets his craft. Even in writing to you, he is sure to drop a
line.

Cricketer hit in face by ball.

Catching min'nose on the bridge

St. Anthony feeding fish.

First instance of the cure of soles (Vide Life of St. Anthony)

Man caught tiny fish.

SUPERB

Podgson (a recently joined disciple of the gentle craft). "Ah, now I flatter myself that I played

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that fellow with considerable skill, and landed him without the net, too!"

Boys playing in a stream near angler.

"I'll punch your 'ead, directly, if you don't leave orff. How do yer think the what's-a-names 'll bite, if
you keep on a splashin' like that?"

An Original Corner Man.—The Complete Angler.

A Brother of the Angle.—A fellow mathematician.

When is a fisherman like a Hindoo? When he loses his cast.

Landowner talking to angler.

Irate Landowner (to Angler). "Hi, you, sir! This is my water. You can't fish here."
Angler. "Oh, all right. Whose is that water up there round the bend?"
Irate Landowner. "Don't know: not mine. But this is."
Angler. "Very well. I'll wait till that flows down here!"

Two men talking.

"Many a Slip."—Boisterous Friend (bursting suddenly through the shrubbery, and prodding
proprietor with his umbrella). "Hul-lo, Hackles, my boy! Ketching lots o' salmon!"
Angler. "There! Tut-t-t-t—confound you! I should ha' settled that fish if you hadn't come bothering
about! Three people coming to dinner without notice, and only chops in the house! You'd better go
and tell my wife what you've done"

Keeper talking to fisherman.

Piscatorial Politeness. (From a Yorkshire stream.)—Privileged Old Keeper (to member of
fishing club, of profuse and ruddy locks, who is just about to try for the big trout, a very
wary fish). "Keep yer head doon, sir, keep yer head doon!" (Becoming exasperated.) "'Ord bou
it, man, keep yer head doon! Yer m't as weel come wi' a torch-leet procession to tak' a fish!"

Owner talking to illegal angler.

Something like Preservation.—Irate Individual. "Are you aware, sir, that you are fishing in
preserved water?"
'Arry (not quite so innocent as he would appear). "Preserved water! And is all the fish pickled,
then? Bless'd if I've seen any live 'uns about."

Marrried couple fishing.

Mrs. Brown. "Well, I must be going in a minute."

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Mr. B. "What for?"
Mrs. B. "Why, I forgot to order the fish for dinner."

Elderly fishermen.

More Ornamental than Useful.—"Just give that bit o' lead a bite atween yer teeth, will yer, matie?"
"Ain't ye got no teeth of yer own?"
"I got some, but there ain't none of 'em opposite one another."

Two men in a boat.

Anticipation.—Piscator (short-sighted; he had been trolling all day for a big pike that lay in a
hole about here). "Quick, Jarvis—the landing-net—I've got him!"
Jarvis. "Ah, sir, it's only an old fryin'-pan! But that will be useful, y'know, sir, when we do catch
him!"

A PUNT POEM

I'm a fisherman bold,
And I don't mind the cold,

Nor care about getting wet through!

I don't mind the rain,
Or rheumatical pain,

Or even the tic-douloureux!

I'm a fisherman damp,
Though I suffer from cramp,

Let weather be foul or be fine,

From morning till night
Will I wait for a bite,

And never see cause to repine!

I'm a fisherman glad,
And I never am sad;

I care not to shoot or to hunt;

I would be quite content
If my whole life were spent

From morning to night in a punt!

I'm a fisherman brave,
And I carol a stave

In praise of the rod and the line!

From the bank, or a boat,
Will I gaze on my float—

What life is so happy as mine?

Two dissimilar sized persons.

Big Scotchman. "Confound these midges!"
Little Cockney. "Why, they 'aven't touched me!"
Big Scotchman. "Maybe they have na noticed ye yet!"

The Greatest Angle of Elevation.—Fishing off the top of Shakespeare's Cliff.

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